I'll Carry You Home
by I-Threaten-My-Houseplants
Summary: By the time the bar closes, and you feel like falling down... I don't own the song. I obviously don't own Hetalia. I wish I did. USUK. Don't like, don't read.


_So by the time the bar closes_

_And you feel like falling down_

_I'll carry you home tonight…_

"Such appropriate music," America grumbled as the last notes of the song slid from the speakers. He wasn't as annoyed as he was embarrassed on behalf of his boyfriend, who had once again drunk himself silly and was now clumsily throwing punches at France while slurring curses at him. Pressing his fingers to his forehead, America slid a few bills across the counter and went over to the duo, slowly and gently peeling England off of the horrified Frenchman. "Don't you think that's enough, Iggy? Seriously, dude…" he said as he hooked his arms under England's and got him to something of a standing position. England turned his head to face America, expression confused, before his legs gave out under him. America had barely enough time to throw an arm around England's torso and catch him. Slinging one of the Brit's arms around his own neck, he braced himself against the weight. "How did we even get to this point in the first place?" America asked himself, knowing the answer. He shouldn't have suggested going to the bar, but once that idea had been planted in England's brain there was no getting it out.

Not paying any attention at all to America's words, England stared down at his legs with a wobbly smile. "It's hard to walk…" he said with a giggle before America began to guide him out of the bar, half carrying, half leading him. After a few minutes of slow, awkward walking, England's buckled and he collapsed in the street, head wobbling on his shoulders and torso swaying. He was dangerously close to smacking against a streetlight and America knelt in front of England, back facing him, and reached for England's arms, hooking them around his neck. He then proceeded to hoist his boyfriend's legs over his hips and stand up, adjusting him on his back before beginning to walk at a slightly faster pace. "What're you doin'?" England slurred, obviously trying to sound annoyed, yet pressed himself closer against America, sighing. He buried his face in the furry collar of America's bomber jacket, making a little contented noise in the back of his throat. America chuckled. England always got that way when he'd been drinking—angry at first, and then, when America pried him off of whoever he'd been trying to kill (it was usually France) and took him back to his house, he became much less violent.

Quickening his pace further, he awkwardly balanced England's left leg on his hip as he dug in his pocket momentarily for his house key. Having found it, he quickly unlocked his door and pushed it open, catching the slipping man on his back just in time. "Where'd you take me?" England said, his voice thick.

"We're at my house," America said, carrying the disoriented Brit to his bedroom. Depositing him carefully on the bed, making sure to lean him against a few pillows, he began to take off the jacket that England always wore, fingers carefully unbuttoning it.

"What the bloody hell d'you think you're doin'?" England tried to bat America's hands away, but it was too late and the jacket was already slipping off.

"Well, you would have ripped it off at some point anyway, and I don't want to dig buttons out from the corners of my room," America said. "Just trying to prevent a mess," his voice was gentle as he slid out of his own jacket and tossed it away, leaning back against the headboard and chuckling as England began to play absentmindedly with the curl of America's hair that represented Nantucket. His hand dropped the blanket and slowly his eyes slid closed, top half slumping against America's chest as he began to snore softly. America wrapped an arm around his drunken boyfriend and rested his chin on his soft, messy hair.

England woke up with a horrific headache. "What the bloody hell happened last night?" he said, his voice raspy and eyes screwed shut against the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. At the feeling of someone breathing on him, he forced his eyes open just a little bit and for the first time noticing the comfortable warmth he was propped up against, looked up to meet the closed eyes of America. His glasses had slid down his nose to the point of almost falling off and he had a small smile on his face. His arm was around England, and the curl in his hair was drooping a little, head leaning forward. America's bright blue eyes slowly opened and he smiled as he saw the half-lidded eyes of his lover, knowing that he had an awful hangover. "So, what happened last night?" England asked again, curling up slightly against America's warmth.

"Well, you drank yourself silly and tried to beat up France, so I took you here to sleep it off," America explained, his usual easygoing smile on his face. "You look so hung over," he mused, laughing slightly.

"It's not funny," England grumbled, shaking his head and immediately wishing he hadn't. "Bloody hell," he said, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his forehead.

America carefully extracted himself from his spot under England and smiled even wider, ruffling the Brit's hair. "Good luck at the world conference today," he said, pressing a kiss to his suffering boyfriend's forehead.

England groaned and buried his face in a pillow.


End file.
